Penny Dreadful: Ethan Chandler's Secret
by martykate
Summary: Penelope Von Bulow is a young medium, associated with the famous Theosophical Society. When she takes an idle stroll through the zoo, she encounters Ethan Chandler, who has come to London with a wild west show. One look in his eyes tells Penelope his secret, and love comes also as Penelope tries to help him, but at what price she must pay-revealing a secret of her own.
1. The Wild Wild West Show

Ethan Chandler found him drawn to the zoo, as if by an unseen force. In truth he would rather have stayed away after the incident with the wolves. Those wolves knew his secret—maybe—and though the pathetic creatures who sat in the cage might not, he would rather not have taken the chance.

But the tall, handsome American found himself being dragged, unwillingly, towards the cage. He didn't like the zoo, did not like to see the animals in cages, though it seemed to hold some morbid fascination for him. So he gave in, let himself be pulled along, as he had been pulled into the world of Vanessa Ives and Professor Marcus Murray.

There was a woman standing in front of the wolf enclosure. Totally unafraid she stood there, observing, speaking softly to them in a language he did not understand. And the wolves seemed calm, soothed by her presence, not even reacting when she went down on her knees in front of the cage, as fascinated by them as they were by her.

"I wouldn't stand too close there, ma'am, they're dangerous animals." He watched as she stood up, dusting her hands on her skirt.

"Perhaps I am dangerous, too," she replied, "If I had a rifle I would certainly be a danger to them, but as you can see, I do not. I would not kill them anyway," she lowered her voice, "They are beautiful animals, perhaps the most beautiful of all the mammals, with the exception, perhaps, of the cheetah." She raised her eyes to his, "Do you think I should be afraid? And it's not ma'am, it's miss."

She fixed her eyes on him. They were grey, without a trace of blue. Steel grey, the eyes of a killer, he reminded himself. Jesse James and Billy the Kid had had steel grey eyes, so had the Earp brothers. Her eyes would be sharp, have better vision than most. He wondered, idly, if she had ever handled a gun. With those eyes, she had the potential to be a sharp shooter, as he had been. A gun would not faze her; she seemed to possess no fear.

"I think, miss, that the absence of fear is an excellent quality for one to possess, as long as it is not tainted by carelessness." He was studying her now, she was Vanessa's height, her hair the color of Vanessa's, but with a softness Vanessa did not possess. She was smiling at him now, a smile not forced but truly meant. She held out a hand, bare of gloves, for him to help pull her up, and when he took it, a jolt went through him, almost repelling him but for the fact that he longed to hold that hand as long as he could.

But alas, she stood, and drew her hand gently from his. He stared at her, wondering what had happened, but she reacted as this might be something that would happen every day. He was accustomed to being at ease amongst the ladies, to being in command, but she left him feeling nonplussed, in a way that Vanessa might, only different.

"Would you like to accompany me as I walk through the zoo? I am perfectly at ease being by myself, but sometimes I grow tired of the stares. I suppose it is seeing a woman alone who is therefore not quite a lady. I like to think I have liberated myself from that, but the stares often make me want to say or do something I would regret. And I think you might make pleasant enough company." She held out her hand to him, waiting. "And I would like to hear some of your exploits from the Wild West show—oh yes, I recognize you. I might even have seen you once."

This caught him off guard. He blushed as he remembered the exploits that went on behind his wagon after the show. There was sympathy in her eyes as she watched him, and it bothered him because he found himself suddenly feeling ashamed, even if that now seemed a lifetime ago.

"Or not, if you prefer," she said quickly, but he held his arm out to her. They strolled, in companionable silence, not really stopping to look closely at the animals, until they came to the cage that housed a pair of cheetahs. He would have continued on, but she stopped him, an intense look of concentration on her face.

"Did you know that these are the fastest animals on earth?" She examined his face. "They have relatively small jaws and hunt mainly antelopes. Their burst of speed is amazing, but short, and they are weak compared to lions and leopards, and often lose their prey to them. They are simultaneously beautiful, deadly, and weak. Like all predators, perhaps twenty percent of their cubs survive. They're my favorite of the big cats, I love them."

The cheetah snarled as he looked at him, but he caught a glimpse of the beauty she obviously saw. "You are the strangest woman I've ever seen. The things you say, the things you seem to know. Where did you learn these things?"

"I know lots of things, Ethan Chandler." She pulled back from him and took his hand, "Shall I tell you about you? About what you're running from, what you try to keep secret, why you make no place your home for long?"

"How do you know this?" he whispered hoarsely.

"It is written on your face. Your hand tells me even now as I hold it. Don't worry, Ethan, I have no reason to expose you, why should I?" Her gloveless hands took hold of his. "Do you want to know why I never wear gloves? I'll tell you why, but you may not like the answer"

"I find myself in need of food; would you care to accompany me? There is an excellent tea shoppe not far from here. It is far too long until eight o'clock and dinner. Please say you'll come!"

The switch to coquette was made so suddenly he did not know what to think, but let himself be drawn along. The proprietress seemed to know her, and set a generous repast in front of them, and he wondered how he would pay for it.

"Don't worry about that," she said, reading his mind, "My income, though not generous, can more than cover this. Breakfast and dinner is included in the cost of the rent my brother and I pay for our rooms, but for lunch and tea we are on our own. It does give me an excuse to eat here, it would be impossible for me to cook in my room; I do miss cooking."

"Miss, isn't it about time you told me your name? I've spent a whole afternoon with you. It seems that you know who I am, but I have no idea who you are." He looked at her, his grey eyes staring straight into hers, and watched a smile curl her lips.

"I do suppose that would be fair. My name is Penelope Von Bulow. My brother, Gregory, is a doctor at a charity hospital. We are displaced aristocrats, if you will. My parents could not keep up with the taxes, and after they died we were forced to sell what remained of the estate. To some rich Americans, I might add. We took what we wanted and needed from the house, and left them the rest. There wasn't much left after the tax bill was paid, but it's sufficient for what we need—and what we need isn't a lot."

"I write stories that get published in the 'penny dreadfuls', under my brother's name, of course. There is still an antiquated prejudice against women authors—especially ones who write horror stories. And I publish in other magazines and periodicals. I make just enough money to supplement my income, and my brother's salary so we can afford separate rooms. We live in a building where many artists and writers rent flats. The company is gay and entertaining. If I am no longer 'Miss Von Bulow', I can still be Miss Penelope. I like my life."

"Well, you're the first woman writer I've ever met, or the first who owned to being one. I don't know if I could keep up with you, Miss Penelope, but I'd like to give it a try." He reached out and took her hand, "I am aware of the reputation I used to have, but I promise you, I am no longer that person. I'd like to get to know you much better."

"Even if you knew I was a virgin?" She laughed at the look on his face, "Don't worry, I'm not waiting for a husband. Say, rather, that I am looking for a sign, for someone I deem worthy. I seek companionship only, I promise you."

He walked her back to where she kept her rooms. "Shall I invite you up, Mr. Chandler? Would I be safe?"

"No," he said, and pulled her close to him, not caring that they were in public. When he kissed her, she did not resist, but seemed to surrender to him. That perplexed him; this was not the manner of a virgin.

"Come," she said, pulled him through the front door. They climbed four stairways until they reached her flat, and he was not prepared for what he saw.

It was as though he had stepped into a pasha's den. A red Turkish carpet, fringed with gold covered the floor. A round table was covered with a cloth like a tapestry, and the chairs around it had cushions of crimson. A sofa and chair of the same color, picked with gold embroidery sat against an opposite wall, an ebony table next to the sofa held an elaborately decorated oil lamp. The carpet and cushions matched velvet curtains, pulled back with cords that revealed lacy curtains that covered the glass.

A large walnut bookcase, filled with books, stood against the wall. Next to it was a smaller one, filled with curiosities. A large crystal ball sat on an ornate iron stand, reflecting the light coming in from the window. On a piece of blue velvet lay a crystal pendulum on a silver chain. Boxes of tarot cards and occult books lined a shelf, while another held bottles of oil and jars of dried herbs. A multitude of stones, quartz, rose quartz, lapis, malachite, hematite, jasper, amethyst lay carelessly scattered on the shelves.

"Memories of days gone past," she murmured, "I took what furniture I wanted, but only what I could use. I took my bed, and linens, but left so much behind. I have learned how one can make do with what you think you need. I sold half of my wardrobe and find I don't feel deprived. Though sometimes I do miss my old life," she sighed.

"What is all this stuff, Miss Penelope?" Ethen went over and began picking up stones, smelling oil and candles, gazing with great curiosity at the crystal ball.

"The tools of my trade, Mr. Chandler." She came and stood beside him, "I have been cursed with knowledge of the past, present, and future, though I am blessed and I am not cursed like Vanessa Ives. I told you I knew what you were, didn't I? I can take pity on your plight, but I am helpless to do anything about it. I can nurture you before or after it comes, I can perhaps even make the memories go away, if you want. But I can't break the curse, no matter how much I want to. I will do all I can to help you, if you will let me."

"Can you make me forget right now?" he whispered, and she took him by the hand and led him to the crimson sofa. She pushed him gently down, then kneeling between his legs, began to undo his trousers.


	2. Joys and Regrets

Ethan Chandler woke with a start, not recognizing the room lit only by a dying candle. A panic like that which overcome him when he woke after his transition ended—until he saw the figure lying next to him on the bed, breathing softly. Then he remembered where he was.

He left the room and went into the sitting room, struck a lucifer and lit a candle. He dressed quietly, not wanting to disturb her, wanting to leave unhindered, but a voice came out of the darkness saying:

"Next time, Ethan, wake me up. I'd like to tell you goodbye before you left." Penelope came into the room, a shawl draped over her lawn nightgown. She sat primly on the sofa, "You don't need to worry about anything where I'm concerned. I'm here for you, if you need me, and I think you will be needing me. You're welcome here any time you like, you know."

"What if you have company?" He smiled in spite of himself.

She picked up his hat, and placed it on his head, exactly where he would have put it.

"Well, I'll tell them that you and I have urgent business, and send them on their way."

He laughed, feeling some of the tension ease. "You really do puzzle me, Miss Penelope, you remind me a little of Vanessa—only a Vanessa who knows how to laugh." He paused remembering Brona and her ready laughter, wishing for a moment that she was standing there.

But she wasn't. The woman who stood there was full of life, happy, not angry or fighting feelings of inferiority. Like him, she had known what it was to come down in life, but she had risen above it. She was too good for him, they both knew it, but somehow they fit. She saw something within him that was worthwhile, worth saving; he hadn't felt that way in a long time.

"Full moon coming soon, in less than a week. If you want my help, you'll have to let me know. What little I can do for you, I will."

"What can you do for me?" He looked intently into her eyes.

She put her hands on his shoulders. "I can help to minimize the damages. Not eliminate, but maybe reduce the impact. God, I hate this curse, I've tried to break it before with no luck. Don't be afraid to let me help, I know far more than you realize. Be here early in the afternoon, on the first day of the full moon. I'll let you know what I have planned." She kissed him swiftly on the lips, "Now go before I ask you to reciprocate the favor I did for you again. I'm sorely tempted as it is."

He tipped his hat and kissed her, then let himself out the door. Once on the sidewalk, he stared up at the sky. Barely seven days, he thought, if that. Less than seven days of freedom. He did not want to think of that, not right now, he chose instead to think of the woman whose bed he had shared.

She was a virgin only in fact. He had enjoyed her-thoroughly. The precious virginity that she held onto had come close, more than once, to being lost. With that one exception, she had allowed him everything. Even with the limitation she had put on their lovemaking, he intended to enjoy her again, soon. A lack of inhibitions was one thing he truly enjoyed in a lover, and Penelope Von Bulow seemed to possess few. What would one call her-a "New Woman", and if she was the future of womanhood, he was all for it.

He wanted to go back and get in her bed. She'd allow him, he knew that, but for now it was not a good idea. By common consent they had taken things only so far—though farther than he'd dreamed she'd permit. Right now, if he went back, he would not be able to stop himself. He was hungry for her, hungrier still for the forbidden fruit just beyond his reach

He looked up at the sky, trying to find the moon. The moon was his protector and his tormentor. Two days a month he lived in hell, more if there was a blue moon. It had been this way for too many years now. He no longer knew who to blame, himself or the moon. He was its slave now, and it would never let go. He could not break the curse, it would hold him forever.

It was a weary walk to his rooms, but he needed it. He collapsed onto his bed, falling into a blissful, dreamless sleep. Drink and sleep were his friends. Danger, too, anything that would occupy his mind and let him forget. Maybe Vanessa Ives had been a gift from the gods.

When he woke, he washed his face, changed his shirt and put on his jacket and coat. He ambled down the stairs, seeing strangers coming out of Brona's room, and wondering why. When he asked the bartender, he was told that Brona had taken a turn for the worse during the night and taken to the wing of the charity hospital that housed the patients dying of consumption.

"I didn't even get to tell her goodbye," he thought, and slapped a five pound note on the bar, and took a bottle of cheap whisky and began to drink.

Late in the afternoon, Victor Frankenstein showed up at the tavern. "There you are, you cheap American drunk. Professor Murray and Vanessa Ives have been waiting for you, and here you sit, drunk as a lord."

"Get out of here and leave me alone, Frankenstein. I'm not known for keeping my temper when I'm drunk. So get your little pansy ass out of here and let me be. Go rob a grave, steal a corpse and cut it open, anything, just get away from me before I kill you."

"That's a very good idea, Victor, maybe you should take his advice, though if he wouldn't face hanging for killing you, that's what I'd recommend. You serve no useful purpose, only your ego convinces you otherwise."

Chandler looked around, bleary eyed. He thought he saw Penelope standing beside him, Dorian Grey at her side. Only it couldn't be, could it? It must be the whisky, how would she have known how to find him?

"Ethan," he recognized the voice and the scent of Dorian Grey. "We want to take you away from here. Will you come with us?"

Chandler pushed him away. "Go away, you're not real. You're in my head, stop tormenting me."

Then he saw, through the fog of alcohol, Penelope kneeling beside him. She took his hand and put it to her cheek. "I'm real, Ethan, can you feel me? You need to leave here. You'll have a bad hangover tomorrow, but if you keep drinking like you are you may get alcohol poisoning. You're about to get into a fight, and it's best if you walk away. I'll go tell Vanessa and the professor not to expect you, and let them know why."

"How did you know, Penelope, how? " He rubbed her cheek, feeling the soft, smooth skin. "How did you know how to find me? How could you have known?"

"My curse, remember. Now please, my love, let us help you, for if I do not get out of this place, I may wind up killing Frankenstein myself."

Chandler was a big man, but somehow they managed to get him into Dorian Grey's carriage. He let his head drop onto her shoulder, and she held onto him protectively.

"How do you know Dorian Grey?" he asked, oblivious to the face that he sat in the seat opposite his. Resting his head on her seemed to relieve the reeling in his head.

"We're old friends, and he owes me a few favors." She looked up at Dorian and smiled. We're taking you to his house to put you to bed and let you sleep this off. When you wake up, I am going to feed you foul tasting brews, but they'll take your hangover away—most of it anyhow. You're going to hate me right now, but you'll feel better tomorrow."

He passed out again during the ride to Dorian's house, but butler came and helped manhandle Ethan into the house. They pulled off jacket, coat, and vest, and removed his boots. He passed out before they even finished, dreaming frightful alcohol dreams, seeing images of Brona and monsters intermingling.

Penelope closed the door behind her. Dorian came up to her from behind and laid his lips on her neck. "He'll be out for several hours, why not let me entertain you? You were always the most delightful of playmates."

She pulled away from him, pushing him playfully away. "We agreed not to do that anymore, remember? After this, we'll be even, you won't owe me anything. Now, I'm going to my flat to pick up the things I need, then I'll be back. Please have your cook fix some food for Ethan when he comes to."

He put his hands on her waist. "You're delicious, how can I refuse you? You must come and do sittings at my next party—it's never a bore if you're there."

"And you get bored so easily! Just promise me that it won't be an orgy—I hate them. I'd rather do floating tables and trumpets. I wish people would stop expecting parlour tricks at a séance. I like it better when they want their cards read, that's usually easy and relatively drama free. I'm going now, please leave Ethan alone, he won't be any good to you anyway in the state he's in."

She returned an hour or so later, laden with packets of herbs and treats she'd promised him. "Look," she said, and held up a packet containing little brown cubes, "That perfumed hashish that you love, and the belladonna tincture for your insomnia. I've got comfrey, black willow bark, and peppermint for Ethan. I don't know why it cures hangovers, but it does. I brought extra for you."

Dorian leaned over her, "Are you going to try to rescue him?"

"Stop staring down my bodice, Dorian," she said, "And no, I'm not, he has to do that himself. All I'm going to do is get rid of his hangover, and maybe find out why the drinking binge. I know there's a reason, I'd like to try to get him to talk."

Dorian went and stretched out on a recaumier. "You need to quit reading Freud, dear, it's keeping you from being as much fun as you used to. Maybe he's better off not talking, maybe he won't want to."

"Oh, he talks, all right. It's unusual, but he talks. And you've unburdened yourself to me more than once."

"That, my dear, is because you are the only person I really like to talk to. You're my Freud, my interpreter of dreams. Not everyone has a witch for a friend to take advantage of. Two hundred years ago you'd be burned at the stake."

"And so would you, for being such a libertine. You'd be condemned for less than half of the things you've done. But everyone should have at least one thoroughly corrupt friend, and you're mine. Now, will you please smoke some of that hashish with me? Maybe if I got stoned I'd feel so tempted by the memories of how much fun we used to have together."

Dorian smiled, that heartbreaking smile so unique to him, "Well, remember you had your chance, and if you don't take advantage of my offer, you have only yourself to blame."

Ethan was dreaming that he was running from a monster that had Brona's face. He didn't even know if the monster was a threat, only that he wanted to run.

He woke up, his stomach heaving and his head pounding. He started to retch, and didn't realize someone was holding a bowl for him to be sick in. It seemed he could not stop throwing up, but when he finished, his head was spinning, and he stomach was burning and the pain was unbearable.

"Drink this," he heard a woman's voice, and she lifted a cup to his lips and would not remove it until he emptied the contents. He became immediately sick again, and but she made him drink another cup, and that seemed to settle him. The spinning eased, his head was starting to feel better, and his stomach no longer burned.

He looked up and saw Penelope standing there, no anger or disapproval on her face. She lay her fingers on his forehead and was satisfied he had no fever. "You'll feel better in a little while. Maybe a little sick, but better. You were having nightmares all night, neither Dorian nor I were able to sleep. If you have to drink, don't drink so much. I don't want to have to do this again if I can help it." She sat down, and looked at him for a moment. "What happened?" she asked simply.

"I didn't get to tell someone goodbye, She's dying in the charity hospital of consumption. They even cleaned out her room at the tavern, that's how bad it is. We needed to talk, to settle things, to say the things we should have. I thought I was in love with her." He looked up at her, a wreck, but still beautiful, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" she asked, "For feeling so much grief for someone you cared for? These things happen, Ethan, it's part of life. We all have our demons, now I know more of yours. You don't know mine, but maybe someday you will." She leaned over him and kissed his forehead, "But I'm here, and I'm alive. I don't mind if you mourn her, I'd worry more if you didn't. Now, try to sleep and I'll have a meal ready for you when you wake up. And Ethan, I think we need each other, it was no accident that we met." With a swish of her skirts she left the room, leaving him to ponder the words she had said to him.


	3. Full Moon

**This has turned out to be longer than I planned, but I wanted to tell the whole story as I conceived it. I think this is the longest chapter I've ever posted for a story.**

Chapter 3: Full Moon

Ethan slept, the peaceful sleep of the dead, if the dead sleep. His sleep this time was free of dreams, when he woke could not remember dreaming, only sleep.

He felt better, as she had promised, but as she warned he could still feel the effects of his hangover. He held out his hands, looked at them shaking, and shoved them under the covers. He did not know yet if he wanted the alcohol to kill him.

There was a knock and the door and Penelope came in, carrying a large tray. There slices of good roast beef, potatoes, baby peas and carrots. Best of all was the pot of coffee, fragrant and strong. "If I can feel hungry like this, I must be better," he thought.

"Eat, Ethan, please," Penelope begged him, "There's plenty more where this came from. You need to eat and build up your strength. You have no idea just how sick you were, if you had drunk too much more whisky, you wouldn't be sitting here now. The herb mixture I gave you helped to get the poison out of your system, but you could just as easily have passed out on the floor of the tavern, and found yourself dying in the street."

He grabbed her hand, "Thank you, I mean it. I owe you and Dorian."

She covered his hand with hers. "Yes, you do owe us. And you're going to owe me even more. So eat, your body needs to be strong, not weakened by an alcohol binge. Leave the tray on the table when you're done. If you need me, ring for me"

"About the…" he began, but she cut him off.

"Not now, right now you're just to get your strength back. And walls have ears, Ethan, I remember the servants eavesdropping on us at home. You can't afford that. Be patient, you'll find out what I have planned. She bent and kissed his forehead, then left him alone.

"Thanks for nothing," he muttered, but began to dig into his meal.

They had lost valuable time, she thought, but what did she expect? Ethan probably approached each day with dread, knowing that when the full moon came he would be changed into a creature that blindly killed and destroyed. What she meant to do for him was a desperation measure, the help it provided would be meagre at best, but gambling on something that might help was better than taking no risk and doing nothing. She'd done this for someone once before.

She remembered the "Mama", the voodoo queen she had consulted in New Orleans to see if there were a way to break the curse. The woman had laughed at her, but when she'd increased the amount of money she'd placed on the table, the woman had informed her that only the originator of the curse could remove it. And that the curse was passed from father to son to son to son. The only way it could be stopped was by the younger son taking the curse on his shoulders, removing it from a father or an older brother.

And the curse itself? It's origins were lost in time. In New Orleans it was the curse of the "loup garou", she hadn't known what they called it in Europe, but the gypsies were said to cast it. God himself only knew how they learned how.

She went into Ethan's room to see if he'd eaten. His empty tray had been placed on the table—there were no leftovers. Good, she thought, tomorrow he'd discover that his hangover was gone, no nausea, no headache.

He looked up and smiled at her, and patted the bed, beckoning her to him. Oh no you don't, she thought, I can read your thoughts, your intentions are crystal clear. She took a chair and set it next the bed.

"I have a place I'm going to take you," she began, "It's full of deserted warehouses, populated only by transients and people who are hiding for reasons of their own—but not many and none who will be missed.. I'm going to give you some laudanum to take when you feel the transition coming on—it'll relax you and lessen the pain. I know you'll roam, you may even come uptown, but it will take you a while. With any luck, you'll spend the length of your transition there. I know it's not much," she said apologetically, "but it worked for someone I knew."

"You mean you knew," he said, but she cut him off.

"Yes, I did, but he's dead, he was killed. That's the beauty of where I'm taking you. No one will look because no one cares. It's sad, but it's true. Only society's dregs hide there, and no one cares about them. They're alive but they're hardly living."

"Ethan, I can't pretend I understand any of this. A vampire can live the appearance of a normal life. They don't turn into mindless monsters during the full moon. They keep the appearance of humanity. I can't lock you up, chains won't hold you, so I'm going to hide you. What you do between moonrise and sunrise is beyond my control, as it is yours. I see the guilt in your face, you hate yourself for what you do, but listen to me, there are people who never transition into that creature who are far worse than you are. You do what you do because you can't help it, they can."

He held out his arms, gathered her into them. She hurt for him, she grieved for him, she felt his pain as surely as he did. He wanted to push her away, tell her he wasn't worth destroying herself over, but it wouldn't change things.

"I have to go find Dorian," she told him and left the room.

"He's not worth destroying yourself," Dorian told her, as if he had heard Ethan's thoughts. "You should learn to turn yourself off, like I have. I'm your friend, Penelope, I've seen what it's done to you. You go around trying to save people at the cost of saving yourself, like there's something in you that you have to redeem. There's not." He guided her to the sitting room and poured her a glass of perfumed brandy.

"Maybe there is and I just don't know it. Can Ethan and I stay here for a few days? And can I borrow your carriage when I need it? Not all day, just for the afternoon and after sunrise. And don't ask why, please?"

"Of course. I don't know what's going on, but I'll do whatever I can to help you—and that big, gorgeous man of yours. I just wish I'd found him first."

"But you did, didn't you, Dorian. You forget, I can read you just like I can anyone else." She sat back, her eyes glinting. "I wonder, were you his first? What's funny is he is corrupt, but in a way he's an innocent. You were an innocent, but you embraced debauchery so fully that it's second nature for you now. That's what I've always liked about you, you are so completely yourself, there's no pretense. I just wish I could have been here that night to watch the two of you—my two favorite men."

Dorian smiled his glorious smile. "When you're done doing whatever it is you're doing, I'm going to tell Ethan he should turn you over his knee—and maybe even let me watch. Any other woman would have been furious and outraged, but not you. You almost outdo me in some ways."

He was right, she couldn't deny it. She could say she shocked herself sometimes, but she had lost that capacity. She and Dorian would have been perfectly suited to each other, but she wasn't suited to the life he had chosen.

Ethan knew it was the morning of the full moon, even before he opened his eyes. Penelope, ever alert, opened hers at the same time. She did not even have to speak, but he could hear her saying, "I know, my love, I know."

She sat up, held him. "I'll take you there this afternoon," she said, "There's a few things I have to get together for you, but I won't take you there until late. Better not to spend all that time alone. I know I can't take your mind off it, all I can do is try to distract you. I wish we could tell Professor Murray and Vanessa about this, but to what end?

"If you want to distract me, then come here." Ethan pulled her back under the sheets. "Now, where did we leave off last night?"

At three-thirty, they climbed into Dorian's coach and she gave the coachman directions. She'd packed a basket, and he wondered what it contained. He wondered, idly, if it included a revolved with silver bullets—he'd always wondered if that really worked. How did you kill a werewolf anyway?

The coach made its way through twisted, cobblestone streets down to a group of abandoned warehouses. Once this had been a thriving part of the river trade, but an earthquake and flood had changed the bends of the river, leaving abandoned wharves and boathouses high and dry. The warehouses, like the other structures, were succumbing to the effects of age, falling in on themselves and each other, the rotting wood had caused some structures to collapse. It was grey, abandoned and depressing.

Here she had the coachman halt. He handed her down from the carriage, then took the basket and followed her down a stony path. She led him down the row of structures until they came almost to the end.

"Here," she said, " I think this one is relatively safe, and private. You won't see many people, but they're here. They come out mostly at night, mainly men, maybe a few women. The coppers don't come here, it's not worth their time. Most of these people are just waiting to die, they've lost hope, but at least here they're left alone.

She took the basket from him and removed the towel covering it. "Something to eat, though I don't know if you'll be hungry. Half a bottle of whisky, no more, which I hope you don't drink, but it's here." She held up a blue bottle shaped like a tube. "This is laudanum, enough to help ease the pains of your transformation—I know it hurts. I wish it could render you unconscious, but it can't. It worked for someone I knew once, maybe it will help."

I know you have no control over where you go, but you may find it hard to make your way out of here—at least for a while. You're as safe here as you could be anywhere. I'm unloosing you on an unsuspecting group of people, but I can't help it. You'll do less damage here than you would uptown, and it's a better place to hide. I'll come and try to find you after sunrise and take you back to Dorian's. It isn't much, but it's the best I can do for you."

"I know," he replied, "But it's the most anyone's tried to do for me. Now, get out of here, sunset is coming soon and I want you far away from here. This is something I don't want you to see." He kissed her and saw her back to the carriage, trying not to see the look on her face as they drove off. 

He didn't bother with the food, he went straight for the whisky bottle. As he inspected the contents of the basket, he noticed the revolver was gone. Was it to protect her life, he wondered, or was it to prevent him from taking his?

The first pains came as the sun started to go down, the little ones that heralded the gut wrenching pains that seemed to twist his insides. He took the bottle of laudanum and drank it down, pour some whisky into it to get the last drops. The pains hit again as he waited and prayed for the laudanum to work.

The opiate started to take effect. It was, as she said, not a cure all, but it helped temper the pain. The laudanum began to work its way to his brain, numbing him. The contortions, the twisting, aching pain that accompanied the act of his body re-adjusting itself to a form that was not human, seemed to wrench at his muscles and skeleton. He could not see it, but he knew it from old habit, he was changing from human to monster, and the last thing he remembered was seeing his nails grow into talons. Then the transformation took him.

Where once had been a riverbank there was now iron hard dirt. Something stood there, a shape that might once have been human, but was not. It was animal, yet not animal, still it was mindless, a blood lust on it that must be satisfied. It looked up at the moon and began a howl that sounded as much like the cry of a human as it did of an animal.

It began to sniff, searching for a familiar scent. It wandered up the rows of the old buildings, seeking the familiar scent of blood running through veins, human blood, the blood it craved above all.

First one building, then another. Traces of the scent of humanity that had been there once, but was no longer. Then at the next, the smell of a dying fire, the smell of human feet as they went into the old warehouse, thinking themselves safe for the night. The beast entered, quiet and deadly, giving itself away by the growls and the sound of breathing. It stood there, smelling, smelling for the familiar odor that distinguished one from another.

And it became aware of the fear/

It was already too late when they saw it. The three men tried to protect the woman, but each was lifted by the throat, the claws slashing it open, then the body tossed indiscriminately into a corner. The woman looked on, horrified, realizing now that it was coming for her, that it was her that the beast wanted, and nothing and no one could have saved her.

She screamed in pain as the claws ripped across her body, her entrails spilling, but all she could do was look on in horror as the great jaws found her throat, and after that she blessedly she knew no more.

Penelope woke at dawn, feeling rather than knowing it. She looked over and saw Dorian, wondering why he was there until she remembered the nightmares, and Dorian coming to her and holding her until she could sleep again.

She leaned over him and began to shake him awake. "Dorian, wake up, I need you to order your carriage for me. I have to look for Ethan."

"Hmmm, what? If you're going anywhere at this hour, I'm going with you. Is the sun even up?" He sat up and rubbed his eyes awake.

She slid out of bed, removed her nightgown and began to dress. He helped tie her laces and buttoned up the bodice of her dress.

"Wait for me. I'm going to have Rufus get the carriage ready, and tell the cook to have a meal ready for us when we return. Penny," he used his pet name for her, "When you do things like this I wish you'd tell me what's going on. I don't know of anyone else who would accommodate you the way I do."

"It's not my secret to tell, Dorian, you have to ask Ethan. Hurry, please, we need to get where we're going before too many people are on the street. And thank you," she kissed him, showing him just how grateful she was.

"Where are we going?" he asked her as they got in the carriage.

"The place of the lost," she replied, "You'll see."

She looked anxiously out the window as the carriage returned to where she'd taken him the day before. Dorian had roused himself for her sake, despite the early hour, but it was a comfort now to see few people on the streets. Where was Ethan, anyway? She hoped he'd not strayed far from the rundown warehouses. She did not want to go into the woods to look for him in spite of the fact that by now he would have changed back. She wanted to find him, get him in the carriage and return to Dorian's house.

"What is this place?" Dorian looked around at the decay. This had clearly been somewhere but had been nowhere for a long time. Why had she taken Ethan here? Something clearly was wrong, but Penelope never revealed anything. "Ask Ethan," she'd said, but maybe he didn't want to know.

They made their way through the old docks and warehouses. They went from structure to structure, judging if it was safe, only then entering it cautiously. Once they disturbed a group of transients, but a handful of coins relieved any bad feelings and they proceeded to the next derelict structure, frustrated at finding nothing.

Another dilapidated building stood before them. Penelope felt a shiver run up her spine. "Something's in here," she whispered, and took his arm. They entered, the smell greeting them almost before they had set foot in the building.

They proceeded, cautiously, then saw the disembodied head, eyes wide with fear. Dorian tried to hold her back, but she shook her head. She almost regretted listening to him. Pieces of bodies lay strewn around the building. Only one, though, had suffered desecration. What one had been a woman lay in pieces, the gaping middle spewing intestines, the smell of the bowels foul with the smell of excrement.

"Let's get out of here," Dorian urged her, and she allowed him to pull her out.

"Wait, don't leave yet, I have one more place to look." She went to the warehouse she had left him in, seeing the basket in shreds, and the blue vial with its silver lid lay some distance away from the bottle of whisky.

She picked up the bottle, uncorked it, and took a long drink. "Here, Dorian, he's in here, she called to him. She entered the cavernous warehouse, picking her way over boards and rocks, then found Ethan, curled up and shaking.

Cautiously, she laid her hand on his arm. He started, staring at her blankly, then slowly started to recognize her. "Penelope, I…" he started to say, but she cut him off.

"It's all right, Dorian and I are here to take you home. Can you stand?"

He shook his head, "Not yet."

She handed him the bottle of whisky and he took a long, deep, drink. Then she took it away, took a drink herself. "Come on, try. We need to get you out of here." She looked up at Dorian, "Help, please." He came over and somehow they managed to get him to the carriage.

She was silent for most of the way back, aware of Dorian's scrutiny, knowing she could not hold the truth from him for long. And he had an uncanny way of guessing at things. The bodies, the state Ethan had been found in, something would have to give. The risk she'd taken had paid off this time, but there was still one more day to the full moon. She was in Dorian's debt again, and the agreement between the two had always been that debts were paid in full.

And this one would be hard to pay off.


	4. The Aftermath

There was nothing to do but bring Ethan home and put him to bed. He woke only briefly as they transported him from the carriage to the house, then fell asleep again.

Penelope stood next to the bed for a long while. Dorian came up from behind her, saying, "You need to eat, Penny, you're already getting that hollow look around your eyes. If you insist on trying to rescue him, you have got to take care of yourself, too."

She started to say, "I'm not trying to rescue him," then fell silent. Someone else would have believed her, but Dorian knew better. Dorian knew things about her no one else knew. She knew his lies, he knew hers.

Without a word, she got up and followed him to a small dining room, a room where they had shared many meals. He stood over her, patient as a father, and made sure she kept eating when he knew she'd rather push the plate away. They retired to the sitting room, and he put on "Don Juan," one of her favorite operas. She had no patience with Wagner, she always told him, too Germanic, nothing like the delicacies of Mozart's operas.

She drained the brandy, then set the glass on the table. "And so we do it again today, and then live as if nothing is wrong until the next full moon. Dorian, I should have fallen in love with you, it would be harder but far less grief."

"But you are in love with him." She nodded, miserably. "You fell in love with a big, handsome man, one without a tint of British, but that charm and openness we so love in Americans. If it's any consolation, I think Vanessa had her eye on him, but he much prefers you. So much so he's letting you try to work a miracle that you can't. All for love. Is it worth it?"

"I don't know. Have you ever loved, Dorian? It's easy when they're simple and uncomplicated, but that becomes boring. The complicated, the dark, the mystery, that's what we're truly drawn to. The simple prefer the simple, but not creatures like you and I."

"I could have loved you," said Dorian, "but I would not have made you happy. You're better off with your werewolf—if that's what he is."

Dorian decided for both of them that they would go to the Grand Guignol Theatre that night, for a distraction, he said. They left Ethan, sleeping, in the care of the servants and went to her flat to pick out a gown and jewelry.

"The Worth?" he asked, holding up an ivory silk gown.

"No, the cherry with the black stripes. Not too fancy but the neckline is low. I'll wear my ruby choker and earrings. I'll have just the touch of dissolute—no decent woman wears red, only prostitutes.

"And you'll be seen with me, which condemns you twice." He went over the to the bookcase, as he always did, and looked at the crystal and the pendulum. "Do these really work?"

"If it's someone who isn't you, yes," she laughed, "the one time I tried to read you was just after we'd met. I gazed into the crystal and a black mist gathered, and the globe turned black. I couldn't use it for three days, that's how long it took to clear. It won't work for everyone, Dorian, I've had to lie my way through readings before, but that was because they were blocking me, they just didn't know it. The pendulum, I think, is the scariest. It just starts moving, and chooses a direction. It works for more people than the crystal ball. I think we need to go back, I'm worried sick about Ethan."

No sooner had they walked in the door when a servant came running to them, informing them that "something was wrong with Mr. Chandler." Dorian threw the garment bag full of her clothes and ran with her into the bedroom/

Ethan lay, muscles tensed, eyes open and staring into nothing. His lips were drawn back over clenched teeth, and his fair complexion was paler than the sheets he lay on. His body strained and pulled, his arms flailing out, causing harm to anyone who drew too close.

"Shall I hold him down for you?" Dorian asked her, but she shook her head.

"Just make sure he doesn't hurt himself." She drew as close as she could to his face, touching his teeth gently and looking at his fingernails. "No, he's not in transition yet, Dorian, but he's reacting to something. I don't know if it's the whisky, the laudanum, or something that happened to him during the night. I don't have experience with this, and what little I do know did not prepare me for this. What I'm going to have to do is give him some morphine to calm him down. I have to have him awake in time to get him away from here and then get away safe. Watch him and make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

She left the room and came back with a bottle of clear liquid and a syringe. "Morphine," she held up the bottle, "I don't want to do this, but his convulsions seem to be getting worse." She drew some liquid from the bottle, and injected it into his thigh. "Now, he should start to relax, slowly. I couldn't give him much because we have to have him awake to get him back to the place where he spent the night. I can't take chances, he could hurt both of us. If he can sleep this off and eat, he'll be strong enough for one more night."

Then four weeks of freedom before we go through this again, she thought. Dorian looked her over, reading her. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the living room. How he always anticipated her needs, she'd never know, but she was grateful. He pulled out a carved box and removed the pipe and the hashish.

"Here, you need this. I'd offer you absinthe, but you'd only turn it down." He lit the pipe and held it to her lips, "Come on, don't argue."

She took the pipe and inhaled as he lit it. "Oh, this is good. I'm going to owe Francois a favor, I definitely want to get more of this." She pushed the pipe aside when he tried to light it again. "I want to just forget things. I want to forget everything. I wonder what it's like for people who have normal lives, who have no idea what it's like if they lift the veil that shields their eyes."

"If it were anyone else but you, you'd be happy, but you know you wouldn't," he said severely, "What you are is ingrained too deeply in who you are. You are here to use your gifts, not deny them."

"One of these days, I'm going to catch you in a lie again, Dorian. Right now the person I need to help is in a morphine sleep. I just hope he wakes from it in time. We can't have him here, and I don't want to just leave him by the dry river bend. I can't escape what I am, you don't want to escape what you are, and we're both lucky that we're not tortured like Vanessa Ives. Fate has been kinder to us, thank god." She got up from the couch and went to check on Ethan.

His body no longer contorted, his face looked a little more relaxed, and when she touched him he did not jerk. She wished he could stay like that through the night, but knew better. He had to waken, he had to eat, he was far to weak for the ordeal that he faced. Were it anyone else, she would wish that the coming metamorphosis would prove fatal. She did not wish for death for Ethan, but how could anyone choose to live this way?

She went back to the sitting room and sat next to Dorian, leaning her head on his shoulder. Were she prone to tears she would cry, but she wasn't. She'd hardened years ago, and knew why.

"He's doomed, you know. You realize this, even if you don't want to admit it. Even if there was a cure for what he is, he would still have to live with what he's done, that terrible loss of life he called." She tried to pull away from him but he wouldn't let her. "Why do you pursue these lost causes of yours? You're as famous an occultist as Madame Blavatsky in your own right. You could be feted by kings, if you chose. You could stop writing for those ridiculous penny dreadfuls and publish your occult experiences. Why not?"

She grabbed the pipe, lit it, inhaled, then exhaled a small, slow stream of smoke. "Yes, I could become the toast of London, I suppose. I could write and publish under my name, and embarrass my brother, which is the least of what he deserves." She stood up and walked around the room. "I suppose I don't do it because I don't want to cheapen myself, or my experience, or exploit the experiences of others. The Occult is all the rage in London right now, but these people merely want to hear lurid tales of things they don't understand. Can you imagine trying to tell Ethan's story, especially when I don't understand it? Or yours? Maybe these people are better off not knowing." She swept out of the room.

Ethan was dreaming, struggling to awaken from what he was dreaming, but something seemed to hold him in it. It was like he was in a coffin, he could feel walls all around him, something was pushing on him, suffocating him.

Somewhere, far away, he an animal growling, snuffling. It seemed to be right above him, then the noise seemed to be coming from somewhere inside his tomb. The noise grew louder, was in his ear, then something warm and wet was pressing against it, and words came, not words that would come from a human throat.

"You are mine," it said, "You were always mine, you were fated to be mine. You will be mine for all eternity."

"No," he thought desperately, then screamed, NO!" and began to struggle, his legs and arms feeling bound and twisted. No, he would never resign himself to that fate, that creature.

Penelope and Dorian came running to his side, holding him down to keep from hurting himself. He did not see them look at each other for he was still in the midst of the dream, trying to escape the bonds, which were only the sheets in which he had entangled himself.

At last he went limp, and opened his eyes, but he was still confused. "Where am I?" he asked, then louder, demanding, "Where am I?"

Penelope took a chance and sat on the bed. She could not grasp his clenched fist but took hold of his arm saying, "Ethan, Ethan, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"

Suddenly he realized that he did. He looked down and saw the tangled sheets that Dorian was starting to unwind. He looked up at her calm face, unclenched his fist, laid one of his big hands on her cheek.

"Penelope?" he asked, as if not sure, but she seemed content with that.

"I want you to sit up, just a little, and then do a favor for me." She stared intently at his face, as if looking for something. She brought up a finger and held it in front of his eyes. "Look at my finger, I want you to follow it with you eyes as I move it. Just your eyes, don't move anything else."

She passed the finger back and forth in front of him, then seemed content with what she saw. She lay a finger on his wrist, left it there for a moment. Then was silent.

A long while seemed to pass before she spoke. "What do you remember of last night? Can you tell me something about it, anything?"

He shook his head, "No, nothing, I never remember anything."

"Have you ever spent more than two nights in transition? Has it ever started before sunset?"

Her questions embarrassed him, but he answered anyway. "No, never more than two nights. I've turned twice in months where there's been a blue moon, that's it. And I've never started to turn before sunset. Never. Why are you asking me these questions?"

"You had a seizure, Ethan, one bad enough to scare me. I'd like to know why, but I'm not doctor. I wish we could tell Vanessa and the professor…?

"NO!" he sat up in bed, "I don't trust what they'd do. The Professor, not at all, Vanessa, maybe but how much would she tell Murray." Then, to his horror, he saw Dorian Grey standing at his bedside. "No," he said softly.

"It's all right Ethan, ", her voice soft and soothing, "Dorian is one of my oldest friends, I couldn't have helped you last night without him. You need to get up, eat. You have one more night, and you need your strength. One more night and then we have four weeks to see if we can find a cure."

"There is no cure," Ethan said bitterly, "Else I would be in my home where I belong."

She laid her cool fingers on his forehead, "I know, believe me, I know. We'll be in the sitting room when you're ready to come out." She turned and left the room.

Ethan cast an angry look at Dorian. "You leave her alone, do you understand me? She doesn't need you, we don't need your help."

Dorian smiled, "But you do, you just don't realize it. And I don't think she'd agree with you." He kissed the top of Ethan's head, then followed Penelope out of the room.


	5. Persephone

**I hesitate posting this, but I'm doing it. Will probably remove it as it didn't get much response the first time.**

**What's really bothering me about it is the fact that I completed it on June 14, and posted it. It didn't get many readers so I deleted it.**

**Then came Episode 6 and I thought, "Oh shit." Okay, I'd thought about re-posting it, though I didn't expect much. Now I'm reposting an episode that has the same theme. I'm not plagiarizing, I don't do it (except there are those that consider fan fiction plagiarism anyway). but I did not expect to view an episode that was similar to something I'd written, but was obviously much better. So maybe I'm braver now that that episode aired. It's probably not very good anyway. But please remember I wrote this before Episode 6 aired, I always try to come up with my own plots and just try to keep in sync with the arc.**

"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times."

Penelope hated Dickens, the man and his writings, but right now that quote from "A Tale of Two Cities" seemed to describe it all.

It was the best of times, the full moon was past. They had twenty eight days of freedom ahead of them, twenty eight days to be free of worry.

It was the worst of times, they had survived this full moon, but another would be coming. The days would pass too soon, and the plans would need to be made for Ethan's ordeal.

But now they were relaxing, celebrating. They were engaging in love play, wild, joyous, and unabandoned. The fever was growing in them, making them reckless. He was trying to hold himself back for her, but it was getting harder. They were pushing their boundaries, and at last Penelope gave him the answer to the question he did not ask.

"Do it," she said, "I want you to do it, now. I want it, I want you. If you want me, you can have me—all of me."

"Are you sure?" he whispered, and she nodded. He drew her closer to him, wondering how to deflower a virgin, trying to remember if he'd done it before. Wouldn't it hurt her? But then he didn't care, he wanted her. He was going to take her before she changed her mind.

He drew her closer to him, readied himself, pushing against her, and then she began to punch him on his shoulders, trying to push him away. "Leave me alone, you bastard," the voice was Penelope's but not Penelope's, "Get off me! Who said you could do this?" She shoved him, "Get the hell away from me! Let me go!"

Ethan backed away, confused, "Penelope?"

"I ain't fucking Penelope. I work in her family's house, I may be just one of the maids, but no man's going to take advantage of me."

"Penelope, is this a joke?"

"Joke's on you, cock, she don't even know about me, and I've been around for a long time."

"I want to talk to Penelope," he said firmly, "I want to talk to her now."

"All right, I don't want to talk to you, either." With that the mysterious voice disappeared and Penelope opened her eyes, confused.

"Ethan, what happened? One minute I was making love with you, then everything went blank. It's like I went to sleep, or just went unconscious and then suddenly you're saying my name and I wake up. Ethan, I'm scared."

He held her tightly in his arms and she began to shake, then cry uncontrollably. He realized what he had seen could not exist, but he had been face to face with something that resembled Penelope, but was not. The voice was that of a working class maid, someone clearly not educated.

He held her through the long night, both afraid that the stranger who had so suddenly appeared would return. Eventually she stopped trembling and ceased to cry. He would have to talk to Professor Murray, he would know what to do. If not, he would know someone who would.

The next morning found them at Professor Murray's. Ethan relayed the events, all of them, of the night before. He spared no detail even as Penelope turned her face away.

Though he tried not to show it, what he heard caused Professor Murray great concern. He asked Penelope a few questions, then sat back, deep in thought.

"I have a friend, a doctor who has studied with Freud, who has studied abnormal conditions of the human mind." Penelope flinched at these words, but said nothing, "He is also an accomplished mesmerist, and has been successful in utilizing this method to treat patients. As a favor to me, he would come and see you, Miss Von Bulow. His name is Van Helsing and is a very conscientious and cautious physician who would not jump to conclusions. I would like to ask him if he would agree to a consultation with you, if you were agreeable."

"Yes," said Ethan, not caring whether or not she agreed, and Professor Murray seemed in agreement.

"It's not for you to say this for me," thought Penelope, "although I know why you do it." She remained silent, nodding in agreement, and did not resist when Vanessa gently took her arm and led her out of the room.

"You should not let him speak for you, it is your choice, not his." Vanessa's face showed exactly how she felt, but Penelope shook her head.

"Why do I agree? I'm not sure I want to, I'm not sure I want to refuse. He's afraid of losing me, as he lost the other, as I am afraid of losing myself. I am not always this way, Vanessa, but I think this scares me in a way I thought I could not be. I want to put an end to it, therefore I say 'yes'."

The room was dark, illuminated by only the light of a single candle reflected in the gold watch the Dr. Van Helsing dangled from his hand. Ethan watched as Penelope looked at him for guidance, and as he nodded his head she began to sink slowly into unconsciousness and began to respond to the mesmerist.

"I wish to speak to Persephone," he said, "Persephone are you there? Will you speak to us, please?"

The expression on Penelope's visibly changed. "Who're you? What do you want with me?"

"We wish to ask you some questions," the mesmerist asked smoothly, "Would you be willing to talk to us?"

"Dunno why you'd want to. What could I say to a swell like you? But go on, just leave me alone when you're done."

"Where were you born, Persephone?"

"Dunno. North London, I guess. I think I was baptized at Bow Bells. You can't expect me to remember all that, now can you? Babies can't remember things."

"No, I don't," he replied, "Can you tell me where you grew up?"

"God, all these questions. In an orphanage, I guess, but I don't remember which one. I do remember that when I was ten, a lady came and got me and she took me to the house to work as a kitchen maid. I started in the kitchens, but the missus said that if I was a good girl and worked hard, she would make me a chamber maid, and maybe someday a lady's maid."

"Who were they? Do you remember the name?"

She paused for a moment, "Von Bulow that was their name. Germans, I guess. Well, I worked real hard and she was as good as her word. I didn't care much for her, she was a real snob, but she treated us help pretty fair."

"We maids knew we had to watch out for both the Master and the young Mister. We knew exactly what they would do to us, so we stuck together and looked out for each other."

"I used to sneak up to the attic to sit for a minute. I couldn't take a proper kip, but it helped to get off my feet. One day I was going up there and thought I heard a noise, voices, so I went up, careful like, so no one could see me, to see what was going on."

"I saw the Young Mister. He had Miss Penelope bent over a trunk, her dress up and her pantalettes down around her ankles. And he was doing things to her he didn't have a right to. She was crying and begging, saying she'd do whatever he wanted if he'd only stop. He didn't say anything, but his face was red and he was breathing real hard. She kept saying, 'Please stop, I'll do whatever you want, I promise, just stop, please, it hurts.' but he still wouldn't stop what he was doing. When I saw him fumbling with his trousers, I got out of there as fast as I could."

" I guess no one looked out for the young miss, not even her mother."

"She wouldn't take tea that afternoon, and she didn't eat dinner. The next day the young Mister returned to Oxford and after a while she seemed to go back to her old self. But every time he came home, he'd drag her up to the attic for as long as he dared. She was eighteen and she still couldn't stop him. That poor girl, glad it wasn't me."

"The young Mister, who was that?"

"Her brother of course, who else? We feared him worse than his father. He was cruel, a brute. We were all afraid of him, worse than the Master."

"Thank you, Persephone," said the mesmerist, "Now we'd like to talk to Miss Penelope again, if you don't mind."

"Whatever," she replied, and he brought Penelope came back to her hypnotic sleep. He had her count backwards from ten, and brought her out of her trance, then gave her a shot of morphine. He motioned Ethan and Vanessa out of the room so they could talk.

"I think her brother started when she was ten, hence the other saying that she started working at the house at the same age. Think, she uses the name Persephone, wife of Hades, the king of hell, where she would clearly send her brother if she remembered. "

"Persephone is her witness, her safety net, so that a part of her remembers what happened in case she ever has a chance to bring her brother to justice. The past is too painful to remember, what happened all too real, but in order to love her brother she dares not remember. She is willing to participate sexually with you, but she holds back as she did from her him. If you are able to consummate your relations with her it will break down the last of the barriers. But keep in mind that it will also bring forth painful memories, and you must be patient if you want to help her heal."

"This is quite an unusual condition, though not unknown. It usually results from some hysteria, that if not treated will grow worse over time. I would recommend that she be admitted to an asylum where they would be better prepared to treat her."

"No," was the simultaneous response of both Ethan and Vanessa. "No hospital," Vanessa repeated, "She is obviously no threat to herself or others, we can take care of her here. If it becomes worse, we may consider it, but only if it became life threatening."

"Hmmm." Dr. Van Helsing was not accustomed to his advice being contradicted. "I do have a young colleague, a Dr. Seward," he said, "A man of most excellent education and manner. He is in charge of an asylum, but he might agree to consult with her at home. He instills both confidence and respect in his patients, and his manner is both gentle and firm. I am sure he will treat her with both kindness and competence. He has studied with Dr. Mesmer, and is accomplished in that method of treatment. Will you agree to have him see her?"

They looked at each other and nodded, Vanessa guiltily. She was now doing what she had cautioned Penelope against.

"Good," he said, "I will ask him to get in touch with you at the earliest moment he can. This condition may be life threatening, especially if she becomes aware of the other." He packed up his bag and Vanessa showed him to the door. She came back to find Ethan standing in the hallway, tears pouring down his cheeks.

"How can anyone do something like that to an innocent girl? He's robbed her of her life, and though he masquerades as a loving brother, he is, in reality, a fiend. How can I help her, Vanessa, how can I make her better when I can't even tell her the truth."

Vanessa took him in her arms and he laid his head on her shoulder. "You love her, stay by her, that's all you have to do. She won't turn on you the way Brona did, Just be patient and don't stop loving her. But you must not let her know, not yet. We will ask Dr. Seward if that is wise. In the meantime, I would suggest that you leave her alone as little as possible. If she will allow you, move in with her. Dr. Murray and I will help supplement your expenses." She released him, holding him at arms' length. "We are battling for her life, do not forget."


	6. Dr Seward

**This is my first "M" contribution for this site, ever. I'm not even comfortable with the story contwelvet, but it came to me and something said "write me". I'm also introducing a character from "Dracula', which I swear I know inside and out. I think I've owned about three copies over time. And it's one of my favorite books.**

"You want me to be hypnotized? Again?" Penelope sat at her vanity, brushing her long hair. "I agreed to it once, I don't think I agreed that it should happen a second time." She began to twist her hair on top of her head, securing it with the tortoise shell hairpins that had been the first gift he had given to her.

"Penny." There was a strange look on her face as he used Dorian's pet name for her, not realizing it. "Sweetheart, what happened to you scared me. We just want to make sure that we can determine the cause."

"There's something you're not telling me, Ethan, you're prevaricating. Why is it so important that I see this Dr. Seward?" She turned away from the mirror to face him, "Why are you not telling me the truth."

He knelt beside her, "Please," he said softly, "Would you do this for me?"

She nodded, defeated. Had he ordered her, been insistent, demanding, stern, she could have resisted him. But his soft voice, asking without pleading, the way his eyes looked at her, assured that she would give in without protest. Just as it was in their lovemaking, he took what he wanted, gently, but took it all the same. "God save me from these soft voiced, gentle men," she thought.

At eight o'clock, there was a knock at the door. Sembene admitted a youngish man, though older than both Ethan and Victor. He shook the hands of Murray and Ethan, then kissed the hands of both Vanessa and Penelope. He seemed self assured, though not arrogant, a man who knew himself and his abilities.

Very confident, aren't you, Vanessa thought, though I can see how you might instill confidence in your patients. You come in here as if this were no more than a social call, you are polite, courteous, but you're very curious, even eager to witness what happens.

"If I may," said Dr. Seward, "Let us have Penelope sit on the sofa, she will be more comfortable that way. He looked at Ethan who was holding her hand for reassurance, "Please, Mr. Chandler, you must release her. You all may sit and observe, if you wish. Your presence will help comfort her, I am sure that she is a little hesitant since she does not know me." He took Penelope's hand, holding it for a moment. "I know how this must feel for you, my dear. I promise you that it will be all right, you just must have faith in me."

Oh, you've said it all right, thought Vanessa. You're hiding your eagerness well. I may not have done so badly had you been the one who treated me. 

The lights were dimmed, and he lit a candle and set it on an end table. Pillows were piled at the end of the sofa, and he brought out a multi-faceted crystal suspended from a gold chain. "How lovely," Penelope exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the task at hand."

"Do you like this?" he asked, "Watch the rainbows cast by the crystal in the candlelight." He looked intently at her, "Now, some nice, deep breaths to help you relax. Very good. Now, count backwards from ten with me. Ten, nine, eight, seven six… 

Penelope lay deep in a hypnotic trance. Dr. Seward looked at the anxious faces around him, and nodded. I understand, his look said, but trust me, she will be all right. He turned his attentions to the woman on the sofa.

"We wish to speak to Persephone," he said, his voice gentle, yet firm, "Will Persephone please reveal herself is she is willing to speak.

Ethan watched, amazed, as Penelope's features seemed to subtly change, and the voice that came from her lips was not her soft, educated voice, but the voice of a working class woman.

"'Ere, who are you? You're not the gent from before."

"No, I'm not. Allow me to introduce myself, I'm Dr. Seward. I am here to minister to Miss Von Bulow.

"Well, you're a good looking one, that's for sure. Much better than the old man, though he was nice enough. What do you want, anyway?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions," he replied.

"Questions, you can ask all the questions you like, but it won't change things. It won't change what the young Mister did to her. That's done and can't be undone." Persephone said triumphantly.

"Now, Persephone," said Dr. Seward soothingly, "Would you please tell us about the young mister and Miss Penelope."

She snorted, "What do you want to know? Do you think I used to spy on them?" she paused for a moment, "Well, I admit it, I did, I couldn't help myself. It wasn't like she was unkind to us or anything, but she was a snob just like her mum. It made me feel good to see her taken down a notch, to be treated like she was no better than us."

"Tell us what would happen," said Dr. Seward asked.

"Well, he'd wait until their parents were gone, then when she wasn't looking he'd grab her and force her up to the attic. He'd shove her over that trunk, then peel off her pantaloons and lift up her dress. He used to make her wait for a minute, while he looked at her, he'd get a strange look on his face—like he wanted to eat her up."

"He'd start by using his fingers on her and keep at it until she started groaning. Then she'd start to cry and beg him to stop. That was what he was waiting for, y'know, he wanted her tears."

Vanessa held Ethan back as they listened. He was like an angry bull waiting to charge, but all he could do was listen to the torments his darling had suffered.

"He never stuck his John Thomas in her Lady Jane, her bum was what he wanted. 'Can't have you having a baby now, can we?' he'd say. He knew he was hurting her, so he'd put his hand over her mouth to silence her screams. All the while he's pumping and pumping in her, and finally she just collapses and lays there and cries until he's done. I felt real sorry for her, I did, but if I tried to stop it, he would have done it to me. Unless I wanted to be the one bent over that trunk, all I could do was watch."

"How often would he do this?" queried the doctor.

"As often as he could. If their parents were home he'd wait till they were sleeping, then drag her up to the attic. Sometimes he kept her up there all night."

Vanessa held onto Ethan's waist. "Doctor Seward, do we have to listen to any more of this?" she asked, her horror and distaste plain in her eyes.

"No, of course not," he said. Using hypnotic suggestion he persuaded Persephone to relinquish Penelope's body, and brought her to a state of sleep.

"Doctor Seward, is she making this up? All the horrors she suffered, maybe she doesn't want to own to being the person it happened to. Is this a story a fabrication?" Professor Murray's eyes were unexpectedly sympathetic, what he was hearing shocked him, too.

"Let us adjourn and let her sleep," said the doctor. He brought her out of the hypnotic trance and injected a strong dose of morphine into her arm.

Dr. Seward looked at them as if he were reluctant to reveal his thoughts. "After talking to Van Helsing, I was initially inclined to think this was mere hysteria and, perhaps unconsciously, she was fabricating it. However, she speaks not as one but two people. The Persephone persona is blunt, and ruthless, spares nothing. She's also observant, and describes in detail what she sees as if she were a spectator. She's dispassionate towards what she says she sees happening to Penelope, she shows no emotion whatsoever. As she puts it, she does not want to be the victim that Penelope was."

"In short, I do think this is a distinctly different personality. She must have manifested when the abuse started. There was no one she could tell, she felt helpless to prevent what was happening. Perhaps the other became dormant when the abuse stopped, then manifested when you," he pointed at Ethan, "began to have sexual congress with her." He looked apologetically at Vanessa who shrugged her shoulders. "Usually the second personality is the one who absorbs the abuse, but Persephone is self-serving and let it happen to Miss Von Bulow.

"As Dr. Van Helsing said, She has a witness to the abuse, the memory is safely stored where it is hidden from her.

"It has not robbed her of her ability to live her life. It has not robbed her of her ability to love, but she cannot consummate her relationship, despite her love for Mr. Chandler. Until we can—carefully—bring these memories to light, you must be careful with her, Mr. Chandler. She should not know what happened until she is ready. When she is able to face what happened to her, then Persephone will no longer be necessary and she will disappear.'

He packed his bags, and Sembene showed him out. The three were glad to see him leave, in spite of the fact he was proving to be gentle and considerate with his patient.

They adjourned to the sitting room. Vanessa poured brand for each of them.

She drained half her brandy. "I do not know how much more of this I can listen to. No matter the horrors that have happened to me, I never had to bear this. An innocent young girl being brutalized by her own brother, I know it goes on, but I cannot fathom it."

"It means so much to her, Vanessa, that you are there. Were it just the professor and I, I don't think she could bear it. You are a woman, you can understand the way she feels as the professor and I cannot." Ethan laid a hand on her arm, his eyes shining with sincerity and gratitude.

Vanessa smiled, that rare smile that told so much. "I know, Ethan, I know. You and she should spend the night here. Let her sleep off the morphine before you try to move her."

Penelope woke in the early morning hours, unsure of where she was and frightened. It was not until she saw Ethan sleeping in a chair next to the sofa where she was lying that she realized that she was in Professor Murray's house.

She began to wake Ethan. "Wake up, Ethan, wake up." She waited a moment for him to respond, but had to shake him again. "Wake up Ethan, I want to leave."

"Penelope, go back to sleep. We can borrow the professor's carriage in the morning" He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but she would not let him.

"No," her response was emphatic, "No, I want to go home." She tried to get up, but he grabbed her hand, holding it in his strong grip.

"Don't be ridiculous. We can't get a hack at this hour. Most of London is still asleep. Lie down, we can leave in a few hours."

"We can walk, then. I'm going home, even if I have to walk alone. You can come with me or not."

He wished he could restrain her, but she would not be thwarted. He found their coats, and they carefully opened the door. She pressed herself tightly against him to feel his warmth, and he put his arm around her and held her close.

Though the night air had a chill, he was finding the walk home more pleasant than he'd anticipated. The pistol hidden in his coat pocket assured their safety, so there were no distractions for them as they navigated the cobblestone streets.

Away from the place of her ordeal, her mood seemed to lift and she grew happy. She pointed out things, smiling. She even stopped him, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. He kissed her back, hard, suddenly eager to get back to her rooms, undress her and get her into bed.

When they reached her flat, she ran lightly up the stairs, looking behind to see if he followed her. The room was cold, the fire had gone out hours ago, and she did not protest when he dropped her nightgown over her head and put her into bed like a child. He removed his clothes, then slid in next to her, sighing. He pulled her to him, then kissed the top of her head, saying nothing because nothing needed to be said.

She waited until his breathing became regular, then slipped out of the bed. She grabbed a heavy woolen shawl and slippers, then quietly slipped into the sitting room.

She lit a candle and put it on the table. She removed a black velvet square from the shelf, then placed the crystal globe carefully on it.

"You're not telling me everything, you and the others, Ethan. I'm going to have to find out for myself. She stared intently into the globe, seeing at first only the reflection of the flickering flame of the candle. Suddenly, as it had so many times before, a white cloudy shape began to fill the globe, then as it cleared, images began to form.

Suddenly, the images began to take shape, familiar things, things she had known from childhood. A staircase, long and narrow, came into view, and she recognized the stairs that led to the attic of her childhood home.

"Why this?" she thought, why would she think of the home that had not been hers for so many years. She saw a figure ascending the stairs dressed in the uniform of a maid, then suddenly she was seeing through those eyes. She walked to the top of the stairs and then she saw what she had never thought to see: herself bent over a steamer trunk and her brother bent over her, doing things she had forgotten for years.

"NO!" she screamed. She lifted the crystal globe over her head to smash it, but Ethan took it from her hands. He set it on the iron stand and covered it with the velvet cloth.

She turned on him, a fury, "You knew, you bastard, you knew. All of you knew. You knew what he did to me and you wouldn't tell me." She began to hit his chest with her fists, but he calmly stood there until she collapsed onto the floor, sobbing and moaning, not able to get the nightmare images out of her mind. He wrapped a blanket around her and carried her back to the bed, and held her as she fell into an uneasy sleep, still crying, unable to stop.

At least she didn't know about Persephone, he thought. I'll send for Dr. Seward in the morning. This he can help her with, I'm not so sure about the other.


	7. The Secret of the Guardian

**I am playing with history a little bit. Watkins Book Shop is the oldest occult book store still in business in London. It opened in 1893, but I am playing with dates. Likewise, Arthur Edward Waite, like Madame Blavatsky, was a real person and the designer of the Rider Waite Tarot deck, still considered today's gold standard, from which all other versions have derived. Florence Cook was a well-known medium (some called her a charlatan), and was active in the late 1870's.**

Penelope had started to dream. Something about the vision in the crystal ball had triggered a memory. Not the memory of the rapes, but a different one.

She let herself follow the thread of the dream. Something had happened, something she had seem. Mentally she inventoried her memories of the attic: The trunk he had forced her over, the wooden beams, the dress mannequin that had stood against the wall. And the stairs, the steep flight of stairs that had led up to the chamber of horrors that she had been subjected to so often. The memories that had fled when she left, and had now come back unbidden.

She had always avoided the attic, now she knew why. But there was something else she was trying to remember, but it was locked in her mind. Something horrible, she was sure of it. Something she had seen that had filled her with horror and had sent her fleeing to her room. She knew what she had witnessed she had never told, but though she searched every corner of her mind, what it was eluded her.

When she woke, she was alone, Ethan was nowhere in sight. She got up eagerly in anticipation of being left on her own, but her hopes were dashed when Ethan, smiling and pleased with himself, returned carrying a tray with food and a pot of tea.

She wanted to say, "I'm not hungry, I want to take a bath" but instead she allowed him to serve them plates of food and cups of tea. He looked anxiously at her as she ate, so to placate him she allowed him to refill her plate.

She didn't like the looks of worry and anxiety crossing his face. There was something going on, she was deliberately being kept in the dark. She would not allow herself to be hypnotized again unless they revealed the results of the sessions to her.

"Ethan, I'm going to Watkins Book Shop this afternoon. There's a man Helena Blavatsky wants me to meet. He's developed a new design of Tarot cards and I want to look at it and maybe purchase a deck. Then I'm going to go see Vanessa Ives. I will be back in a few hours, or perhaps you can meet me there? Maybe we can go to dinner tonight."

"Well, I don't have anything planned so I suppose I can take you."

"No," she replied firmly, "Ethan, I am going alone. No one is explaining to me what is going on, why you are insisting on the hypnosis sessions, when I'm fine. I know you mean well, but I don't want to be hovered over. I'm not going to hurt myself; I'm not going to run from you. I don't even mind that you've moved yourself in," she cast a pointed look at his bag sitting next to the bed. "I'll be cooperative as you like," she went on, "but please let me live my life the way I've been accustomed to. Besides," she added, and sighed, "I know how much the Theosophical Society will bore you

He looked her, debating. He was clearly uneasy at the thought of leaving her on her own, and weighed it with her unhappiness. He leant over and kissed her, "Let escort you there, then I'll meet you at Professor Murray's later on. I'll talk to the him, while you talk about Tarot cards with Vanessa. You're right, that bookstore would bore me." He kissed her, pleased that she was receptive.

It was the best compromise she could manager. She let him pour a bath for her, then joined her in the tub. She could be content right now, were it not for this newfound secrecy of his. She was going to confront Vanessa, and demand that she, woman to woman, tell her what was going on. The new tarot cards were a ruse, but it was true she wanted to meet Arthur Edward Waite. She was one of the founding members of The Golden Dawn, and she was eager to meet the new member.

Ethan dried himself off, then wrapped the towel around her. He was being so cautious with her. There was still the affection and love play, but he was treating her like a porcelain vase. The problems with the mysterious other personalities were connected with sex, the root of the problem lay now in the fact that she had become aware of what had happened to her.

On the outside, she seemed normal. They had resumed their lovemaking with the original limits, which was causing frustration for her, but seemed to reassure him. He wanted no more of that stranger who had appeared out of nowhere, and so far Persephone had made no more appearances.

Penelope did not like this turn of events, she was not fragile, and she would not break. She would demand that she be told what had happened, why the sessions with the mesmerist, but she knew Ethan would not be forthcoming.

She could see the lines of worry on his handsome face and wished she could smooth them away. Surely he knew that she would not waste away, as Brona Croft had. What was his experience of women—soft, silly creatures that he had used for his amusement, then discarded? In another life did he have sisters? She knew so little, save that the full moon was drawing closer and closer, and she would have to make arrangements for him once again.

Vanessa, then, was her key. He had seen Vanessa at her worst, at the apex her madness. Surely Ethan must know she was saner, more stable at her core than Vanessa would ever be. Could he not see that she would defeat this thing? That she would not let it destroy her, or them?

But still he fussed over her as though she were a child. She had never required a lady's maid, but now she had one at her fingertips. She had not asked that he move himself into her life, appoint himself her guardian, but he had. If she desired that he leave, it would be one thing, but he had become both protector and master, and she hated feeling resentful of someone who cared so deeply, and she could not bear to ask him to leave.

They caught a hack to the central part of town, and stopped in front of Watkins. "I'm going to be here for a while," she told him, "You'd only be bored, trust me. You would not like Madame Blavatsky or Florence Cook. I'll meet you at Professor Murray's, I'd like a chance to talk to Vanessa. And I hope none of you expect me to be hypnotized tonight."

He kissed her and bid her a reluctant goodbye. Watkins Book Shop seemed innocuous from the outside. He'd asked Vanessa about the Theosophy Society once, only to be told dismissively that it was a group of charlatans who wished to possess powers they would never have.

Madame Blavatsky greeted her as she entered the shop. "Penelope, dushka, it has been so long since we've seen you," she said in her cultivated Russian accent, "There is someone I am dying for you to meet."

The little, dark Russian dragged her to a table where a young man with long dark hair and a luxurious mustache was sitting. "Here, she is, Arthur, the one I told you about. Penelope, this is Arthur Edward Waite. He is going to design a new deck of Tarot cards, and we are going to introduce it in this shop.."

Penelope held out her hand to him, "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Waite, I am very eager to see the deck of cards you have planned." He bowed to her, and then sat down. "Helena," she said, "Is Florence here? Will she come into the shop today? I must consult with her on a very serious matter. She is the only one I know of who can help me."

"I expect her momentarily," said Madame Blavatsky, "I am sure she will see you first thing," knowing the fondness that London's most famous medium had for Penelope. "In the meantime, you must try this tea, it is Lapsang Suchong, fresh off the boat from Hong Kong, a most delicious brew."

Penelope made patient small talk while waiting for the medium to show. If she had hoped to keep quiet her liaison with Ethan, it seemed to be general knowledge—someone must have seen them together. She smiled politely when told they made "a most admirable young couple" and was quietly pleased when Madame remarked upon "how handsome" her young man was.

Before she could respond the praise Madame Blavatsky had heaped up Ethan, Florence Cook made her usual grand entrance into Watkins. Her hair was done in ringlets, flattering her more than the current fashionable chignon would. Her dress was fashionable, and flamboyant in the manner that Helena Blavatsky favored, few would have doubted her profession were they not already aware of her notoriety.

"My dear Penelope," she said in her ringing tones, "You have come to seek my advice. Well, Katie and I shall probe the spheres and find out what is troubling you and how we can put it to right." She folded Penelope in her embrace, smelling heavily of patchouli and cigarette smoke.

Penelope in turned smiled weakly at her, overcome by both patchouli and the scent of smoke, "Thank you Florence, I would much appreciate your help. When would it be possible to begin?"

"Of course, my child," the medium's grandiose manner of speaking made Penelope want to laugh. Florence Cook was close to her age, though she had been a professional medium since her teens.

Madame found them a room, then she and Arthur Waite joined them. A sitting with Florence Cook was as good as a play. Though she did sittings on a small scale for friends, she might decide to bring forth her connection to the spirit world, Katie King, and have her seem to materialize. No matter, Penelope thought, when Florence was not acting the charlatan, she was a talented medium.

The room was lit only by candles. Florence sat in a wooden chair, breathing, praying for guidance, slowly working herself into the trance and calling forth Katie King. Would the spirit of Katie materialize? Or, as Penelope hoped, merely speak through Florence. She was sure that Madame Blavatsky was hoping that Arthur Waite would see Florence Cook's performance at its best, but she was here for advice—to find out what the Professor, Vanessa, and Ethan were not telling her.

Florence was now deep in trance and Katie began to come out. The medium's body seemed to grow larger, her hair even seemed a different color. "I am here with you tonight," spoke a soft, almost girlish voice, "Who is it who seeks my help?"

"Katie, it is I, Penelope Von Bulow. I need to know who has been watching me when I was a prisoner of my brother in the attic. I saw through someone's eyes, and I…"

"Quiet please, there is someone who wishes to speak, someone who says she can tell you what you want to know." Katie/ Florence sat back in the chair, and the medium began breathing again, waiting for this new spirit to come through.

Wait, thought Penelope, there has never been any other spirit than Katie. This is someone that Florence must not know about. I knew she was not a charlatan, no matter what some might say. This is not a performance, this is the real thing.

The medium's hooded eyes opened, her face her own now, all traces of Katie gone. She looked around, and Penelope knew that she was being used, that someone else was seeing through her eyes. If she had not been a real medium before, she had now become one.

"Who is it who would talk to me? No, you need not say so, I know who you are. You are asking about the maid, the little queen of hell. You need not worry about her now, she has met the fate that she deserves."

"What fate, and who was the queen of hell? What was her name?" Penelope sat on the edge of her seat, waiting to hear what the spirit would say next.

"You know," the medium told her, "You saw her many times. She was always there, watching, watching closely yet carefully lest she be caught. In the end, it did her no good, she was discovered. He," Penelope noticed that she did not give out her brother's name, "He found her, and he questioned her, and he found her out and picked her up and threw her down the stairs. You found her there, you discovered her, and from that day forward your memories disappeared. The sight of her broken body lying there—you fainted, and the servants found you, and her. Now think, what was her name?"

Penelope put her hands on the side of her head, "No, I cannot, I cannot bear this. Who are you? You're not Katie, why have you come and why have you told me this?"

"I am the guardian. I have kept your secrets since you were eighteen years old. When you were eighteen, your brother killed the maid, and that was the last time he touched you. You must remember these things, you must not run from them anymore."

The candle holders began to rattle upon the table, which began to slowly levitate until it was two inches above the floor. The chairs they sat upon shook as if a violent earthquake was shaking the shop. The floor began to rock back and forth, causing the observers to hold onto their already unsteady seats. Madame Blavatsky jumped out of her chair and opened the door that lead to the main shop, where virtually nothing was disturbed.

Florence Cook began to cough, to choke, her breathing labored, until at last she closed her eyes and slumped back into the chair. As she did, the rattling and the disturbances stopped. A pitcher sat on the table, and though a great deal of the contents had spilled, there was enough left for Penelope to pour Florence a glass of water. She waited until she opened her eyes then handed it to her. The medium took it without a word.

"What happened?" she asked calmly, looking around at the others.

There was silence for a moment, then Penelope was the first to crack. "Oh, you just had another spirit guide appear, and then we had an earthquake in this room." She held her laughter in for as long as she could before it burst forth. Waite was silent for a moment, then he began to laugh, too, as did Madame Blavatsky.

"My dear Florence," the Blavatsky said in between peals of laughter, "Your best performance in your lifetime, and you were not even able to enjoy it. Had we observers to see it, you would now be the toast of London."

The medium clearly did not find it so funny. She drank her water and with a sweep of her taffeta skirts, and left the room with what dignity she could muster, slamming the door behind her.


End file.
